


through his eyes

by azirahoe



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angel/Demon Relationship, Aziraphale Is Soft, Domestic Fluff, I don't know how tags work, I literally have no idea what I'm doing help, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), Pining Crowley (Good Omens), References to Oscar Wilde, Richard Watson Glider, Soft Crowley (Good Omens), good omens - Freeform, is it like Instagram where you have to have a million to be relevant, soft, soft!Crowley, soft!aziraphale
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-11
Updated: 2019-07-11
Packaged: 2020-06-26 08:35:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19764499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azirahoe/pseuds/azirahoe
Summary: Crowley turned his head slowly to the side as he watched Aziraphale scurry around, desperately seeking for the poem he wished to share. While the demon could honestly care less about some dead man's writing, the thing he did care about was how happy and hyper Aziraphale was whenever he got a chance to obsess over literature. He loved the way the angel's bright blue eyes lit up when the topic of a poem or sonnet was brought up, the way his lips formed a wide smile..Dear lord, sometimes Crowley wished he could just take a picture of Aziraphale's face.





	through his eyes

"Oh, and you wouldn't just _believe_ how amazing Oscar Wilde's works are! I know I've showed you a few before, but you never showed interest? Anyways, I don't believe I've actually told you about one of my favorite poems by him: 'The Ballad of Reading Gaol'. Oh, it's _so_ well written, I must recite it to you at once! Allow me to quickly find it though, it's somewhere.. here.."

"Take your time, angel." Crowley turned his head slowly to the side as he watched Aziraphale scurry around, desperately seeking for the poem he wished to share. While the demon could honestly care less about some dead man's writing, the thing he did care about was how happy and hyper Aziraphale was whenever he got a chance to obsess over literature. He loved the way the angel's bright blue eyes lit up when the topic of a poem or sonnet was brought up, the way his lips formed a wide smile..

Dear lord, sometimes Crowley wished he could just take a picture of Aziraphale's face. While memories of him being elated were very well ingrained in his mind, having something physical to look at would be amazing. Was it creepy he wanted to secretly take a picture of someone's face so he could smile at it? He honestly didn't think so.

"Aha!" Crowley snapped out of his thoughts at Aziraphale's triumphant declaration, the angel coming back to the couch they were both seated on. He carried what basically looked like old parchment paper that was just about ready to disintegrate into ash, black fading ink scrawled it on top. Were these the originals? Aziraphale had been rather friendly with Oscar Wilde back in his time, after all.

Crowley leaned over and grabbed himself a bottle of half-finished champagne they had out, pouring some into his empty glass. He sipped the liquid, cradling the glass in between his fingers almost carelessly. Aziraphale carefully carded his fingers through the parchment, sitting up straighter when he came across the one he needed. It was just a simple excerpt from the actual entire piece, but it contained some of Aziraphale's favorite passages.

 _"'Yet each man kills the thing he loves. By each let this be heard, Some do it with a bitter look, Some with a flattering word, The coward does it with a kiss, The brave man with a sword!'"_ As the angel recited the poem his voice was proud and dynamic, perfectly matching the tone of the piece. Crowley tilted his head to the side and smiled, his arm dangling off the back of the couch and swinging freely. He could listen to the angel's voice all day.

 _"'Some kill their love when they are young, And some when they are old; Some strangle with the hands of Lust, Some with the hands of Gold: the kindest use a knife, Because the dead so soon grow cold.'"_ Aziraphale's voice lowered and softened, Crowley observing his facial expressions as he read. Bold and dramatic, then subdued and somber. Crowley was barely paying attention to what was actually being said, simply nodding along and giving subtle smiles.

 _"'Some love too little, some too long, Some sell, and others buy; Some do the deed with many tears, And some without a sigh: For each man kills the thing he loves; Yet each man does not die.'"_ Some love too long.. huh. Crowley huffed and tipped his head back to drink some more, sighing out contently. Crowley stared at Aziraphale's face, watching his mouth move and hands make gestures but not actually soaking in any of the words being produced. Instead, he admired the way the angel's eyes wrinkled as he smiled, his white teeth flashing. Some sap-ass person said that the eyes were the windows to key to the soul, and normally Crowley wouldn't acknowledge such sayings mind that, but he could clearly see Aziraphale's bright and pure soul as he gazed into those deep pools of blue..

His eyes focused onto the angel's hands, watching him wave them around to spark interest into the reciting. Oh, his hands looked so soft and gentle.. he could perfectly imagine him slipping his hand into Aziraphale's, watching the angel's curious expression as their fingers intertwined into a tight braid. He could remember how they briefly held hands on the bus after Armageddon't as they seated, and those moments had truly been one of the best in Crowley's entire existence—and, mind you, that was a long time.

His gaze flickered up to Aziraphale's eyes once more, and he couldn't help but sigh softly as he felt himself getting lost in those deep oceans of soft blue. The emotion in his eyes were fathoms deep, yet they carried the warmth and life of the sunlit surface. Bright and cheerful, full of passion. Crowley had observed Aziraphale's eyes quite often without the other's knowledge, but he was always shocked at how his eyes were seriously blue. Almost sickeningly blue—full on Prince Charming, field of cornflower, perfect, cloudless sky blue. Someone should name a crayon after this angel.. maybe something simple like 'angelic blue'. No, his angel deserved a better name that wasn't so simple.

Despite his self-control he briefly caught a glimpse of Aziraphale's pink lips, looking so perfectly soft in the light. If the eyes are the gateway to the soul, the lips were the same thing for the body. They were tenderness, passion, and the promise of the sweetness to come. Crowley wasn't one for deep, actually meaningful thoughts and figurative language such as this, but how could he resist analyzing the way the angel's lips turned up onto such a pleasant smile?

 _"'He does not stare upon the air through a little roof of glass; He does not pray with lips of clay for his agony to pass; Nor feel upon his shuddering cheek the kiss of Caiaphas.'"_ Crowley blinked and sat up straight, finally snapping back to attention. Aziraphale smiled and sighed, gazing down at the poem before looking at Crowley.

"So? What did you think, my dear boy? Wasn't Mr. Wilde such a genius?" Crowley stared at him before nodding.

"Uh huh. Love the guy, was a big inspiration.."

"Crowley, I recall you almost threatening to turn him into maggots when he wouldn't agree to give me a full copy of a particular poem I wanted."

"'That isn't important right now." He smiled at the angel playfully before setting his drink, leaning closer as his arm from behind came up to drape over Aziraphale'a shoulder, gazing down at the parchment.

"Why don't you share another poem with me, angel? We don't have anything else to do."

"Really? Oh, that's wonderful! Why, let me show you one called 'Nine Years' by Richard Watson Glider. I know you aren't exactly a fan of the more 'lovey-dovey' works as you say, but I'm sure you'll like this one."

"I'm sure I will, angel."

"Great... _'Nine years to heaven had flown, And June came, with June's token—The wild rose that had known a maiden's silence broken.'_

_"''T was thus the lover spoke, And thus she leaned and listened. Below, the billows broke, The blue sea shattered and glistened!'_

_""We have been happy, Love, through bright and stormy weather, Happy all hope above, For we have been together.'"_


End file.
